Stockholm Syndrome
by Slasherphile
Summary: In which you very nearly meet a grisly fate at the hands of Michael Myers, but a case of mistaken identity leaves you as his captive instead.


You had never been a superstitious person.

Stories of ghosts and fiends and boogeymen, while enjoyable, left no lasting impact on you, and as the credits rolled and the theater crowds dispersed, any traces of your fleeting paranoia were discarded along with the remnants of soggy popcorn.

Thus, it was with great curiosity that you found yourself lingering in the comforting warmth and light of your front door, gazing out with apprehensive eyes into the wall of darkness before you, uneasiness welling all the while like stagnant ice water in the pit of your stomach.

Of course, it wasn't fear that kept you rooted like a statue in place, or made you hesitant to step beyond the soft flicker of melting porch candles. You scoffed at the notion; you weren't some sniveling child, afraid of imagined monsters and the unknown. No, fear was not the culprit.

Even so, in your struggle to make heads or tails of the shadowy figures which hid in the darkness like ghost ships against a black fog, just beyond the reach of dying street lamps, your mind ran amok with grim fantasies.

A cool autumnal gust hissed and whistled through the deadened leaves which lay strewn about the asphalt, sending them twisting and dancing through the blackness in a striking ballet of red and gold. The passing breeze pricked at your skin like a hundred icy needles and siezed your body in a tremble- you stepped back into the warmth of the doorway to dig with clammy fingers through your bag.

Your teeth found your bottom lip and you rolled the soft skin back and forth impatiently, squinting against the sudden harsh glow of your phone. What you saw made your expression sour, pulled your mouth into a taught a frown; you were already going to be late. With a defeated huff, you collapsed back on the cold metal of the doorframe, heavy eyelids fluttering shut in resignation.

A symphony of night, of swaying leaves and busy crickets played in your ears and lulled you into relaxed complacency. Exhaustion had already found its hold over you, had wormed its way in with thick tendrils and now hugged your body in a stiff blanket; you knew there was no shaking it. You allowed your drifting mind to wander, became enamored with a fantasy of scrapping your plans and drifting off on your couch with a crackling fire and a fuzzy blanket and a stupid movie.

A fantasy that was, unfortunately, stamped promptly out by the harsh boot of reality; your friends were counting on you. If you flaked out now, you would be hassled about it for weeks.

Stubbornly banishing to the back of your mind whatever childish fear that had kept you rooted in place, you set your jaw, gathered your thoughts, and stepped away from the gentle flicker of candle light.

Blackness surged like a cold wave around you. You squinted through the murky waters; your car, parked at the end of the street, was barely visible through the midnight haze that had settled over your neighborhood like dense fog, blotting out the twinkle of distant stars and muddying the sky with ashen grey.

Your knuckles paled around your keys. Admittedly, it wasn't often you bothered to lock your car; your rationale was that anyone attempting a break-in would be sorely disappointed in the plunder. It was a lazy habit, irresponsible at best, but one that hadn't proven to be an issue for you yet.

Impatience seized you in a clammy grasp and you covered the rest of the distance in brisk strides.

Your reddened fingers found the door handle and you tossed your bag haughtily in the passenger seat before reaching to flip down the overhead mirror. Tardiness aside, if you were committing to this outing, you would do so looking your very best.

You sat up to examine yourself; but as you gazed at the mirrored image, your focus began to drift away from your pampered reflection, content to linger instead in the murky blackness of your back seat.

There, against the shadows, you saw something. some curious, unmoving shape. You squinted. The hairs of your neck stood straight as if charged with sudden electricity.

At first glance, the shape had appeared to be nothing more than a warped reflection of the sputtering, choking street lamp overhead; but as you blinked hard, and your eyes became focused, the fuzzy details fell like a jigsaw puzzle into place; you knew that you were seeing no trick of the light. Blood froze to ice in your veins and your body ran cold.

In the back of your car sat a still, silent figure, rigid as a statue, empty visage as porcelain pale as any ghost.

You couldn't move; tension seized your frame like taught rope. The breath was sucked like a vacuum from your lungs, and for a suffocating moment, you could only stare with widening eyes at the surreal reflection in the mirror; it stared through you, past you, unseeing. Only when you recognized the sharp glint of steel- saw the curve of the carving knife clutched in the figure's motionless hand- did you shake free the crippling bonds of shock.

Your body moved on its own. You seized the door handle with trembling fingers, tried to throw yourself from the car; but the figure struck like a snake. One thick arm found its way around your neck and a rough hand was suddenly at your mouth, and despite your violent thrashing you were dragged like a ragdoll back into the driver's seat.

You writhed and kicked and clawed, eyes burning with sudden wetness, but the horrible pressure only snaked tighter until the edges of your vision blurred into dizzying obscurity. Your pulse beat hot and angry in your ears, a dutiful drummer marching to the tune of strangled cries. You gasped for air, but it had been crushed from your lungs, and suddenly even your muffled screams were stolen from you. You cried silently into calloused fingers; red-hot tears seared tauntingly down your flushed cheeks.

The pressure in your head swelled horribly, threatening to burst; when it did, it would suck your awareness away with it.

Your struggles grew hopelessly lethargic. The world around you spun and tumbled, as if you had been caught in the wake of an icy black current. You sunk nearer to the abyss of unconsciousness and caught the sudden glint of sharp eyes from within a blurring ocean of blank white. They were dark, nearly black, the blackest you had ever seen, and their glare was one of ravenous, unfeeling hunger. You were staring into the eyes of a shark.

Then, the dark sea expanded, drowning your world, and your body fell limp.


End file.
